A History of Valentine's
by Skeptikitten
Summary: Six old traditions of Valentine's Day, six specific dates in time.  America and England as seen by the holiday of lovers.  For a contest on Deviant Art.


_February 14, 1685_

_Jamestown, Virginia_

"England, what are they doing?"

England smiled down at his young charge as the boy tugged the wide sleeve of his somber navy coat, disentangling those pudgy fingers before they could tear the fabric. The child had an absurd strength that he could barely control at the best of times.

"Today is Saint Valentine's Day, America," he replied. "This is a tradition from my house, and I got it from Rome's house many centuries ago. The names of the unmarried lasses from the town are written on slips of parchment and placed in a large urn, and each unmarried lad draws a name in a lottery. He pins the name to his sleeve for a week, and that young lady becomes his sweetheart for the next year. Many marriages will come from these pairings."

"What's a 'sweetheart'?"

Laughing, England scooped America up into his arms to rest on his hip. "A sweetheart is the special person that a man or a woman loves most and wishes to court. These lads will buy or make gifts for their girls the whole year through, usually gloves or jewelry or other trinkets."

"Oh." America brightened and squirmed out of England's hold, dashing over to the group of spirited boys gathered around the jar and clamoring for their attention. One of the eldest bent to listen to the child, then grinned and huddled over the wooden table set on the flagstones of the town square for a moment. He handed a small object to his nation with a flourish, causing the boy to squeal in delight before running back to England's side. Amused, England knelt down to America's eye level.

"Now what was that all about, poppet?"

"This!" America crowed, grabbing England's arm and working clumsily over it for a moment. When he removed his hands, England could see a small square of parchment pinned to his coat sleeve bearing the name 'America' in wobbly script. "Cause you already bring me presents, and I wanna be the one you love most England, cause _I_ love _you_ the most!"

"You…" England tried very hard not to choke on the odd combination of laughter and happy tears. Only his angel… "You want to be my sweetheart?"

"Uhn!" America agreed with an assertive nod.

"All right, love."

"But not just this year," America declared, jabbing a finger into England's chest. "That's fine for humans, but not for us. I want to be your sweetheart _every_ year. For always, and when I grow up then I'll be the one to bring _you_ presents, okay?"

"All right, darling," England said, pulling his little colony back into the circle of his arms for a warm hug. "But I warn you, I'm very difficult to please, so it will take quite the hero to do the job properly!"

"A hero… I'll grow up to be your hero, England, just you wait and see!"

.

_._

_February 14, 1760_

_Boston, Massachussetts_

America woke to the sound of shattering china and fervent cursing outside his window. Throwing his blankets aside with a whoop of joy, he leapt to the portal and pressed his hands excitedly to the glass. A slender blonde with heavy black eyebrows and a crimson overcoat was shaking a vigorous fist in the face of a cringing delivery boy; pieces of fragile porcelain spilled like flower petals onto the cobbles of the courtyard from the edges of a broken crate.

"England is back!"

Dragging on his clothes with little care, America took the stairs two at a time, shirt still gaping open at the neck and waist and suspenders flapping against his thighs. None of that mattered- his England was finally back after a decade of absence. The last visit had been quite awkward, as England seemed discomfited by America's rapid growth and maturation. The entire year had been full of pointed sighs and remarks about how he "used to be so cute and loveable", until America could take no more and had told England off in a flamboyant and crude manner of which he was now thoroughly ashamed. Ten years of terse letters and increased taxes had not helped repair the breach, and despite the increased discontent of his people with the Motherland there was a void in America's heart.

"England!"

America hurled himself out the door and into England's arms, a surprised "oof" escaping the elder nation as he fought for balance.

"I think you might be getting a bit big for this, lad."

Shaking his head from its place snuggled into his mentor's chest, America grinned. "Never gonna be too big for this." Then, softer, "I missed you, England."

A gentle hand ran through America's hair, and chapped lips pressed fierce and lingering to his forehead. "I missed you too, America." Those lips quirked, and America could hear the grin in that beloved voice. "And I brought you presents, poppet."

"Never gonna be too old for those either," America laughed. Twining his fingers with England's, he started to lead them back into the house when a quick flutter overhead diverted his attention. "Look, England- a robin! And it's been so cold until now; I haven't seen anything but chickadees in ages."

"A robin, is it?" England's tone was so oddly wistful that America looked back in surprise to find the nation staring at their joined hands.

"What is it?"

"Was I the first man you saw outside your window this morning, love?"

"Yes, why?" Now England was just getting weird (not that he wasn't always a little touched in the head- _fairies_, ha).

"Never you mind, America. Something for me to think about for when you're a bit older, is all."

America shrugged, too elated at England's presence to worry about the unfamiliar calculating gaze directed his way. The old man would just tell him later, anyway.

.

.

_February 14, 1773_

_Boston, Massachussetts_

"America, are you listening?"

The young nation startled, a guilty look passing across his features as he turned his gaze back to the speaker. There was a pair of robins building a nest in the rafters, and it was much more interesting than the bickering in the cramped barn. He felt a hot nausea rising in his throat just from being here with the Sons of Liberty, defying England.

"Sorry, Mr. Adams. This is just…hard for me, you know?"

The man's harsh look softened at that, and he gave America's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "I know, lad. England isn't just a far off nation to you, but a brother you love. We understand your difficulty, but we are no longer his people; we are _yours_ and we wish to fight for you and for our own identity."

"I know, and I thank you all," America replied, meeting the eyes of _his _people, _his_. "I have dreams for my land and for all of you, dreams of a different nation built on equality and freedom where each man's destiny is not written by his pedigree. But you must give me a bit more time. Let me try to reason with England, show him how much I've grown. Perhaps he will let us go after all."

Laughter echoed through the drafty ceilings, and toasts were made with earthenware mugs of ale.

"Ah, boyo. A dreamer you are, but then so too are we," Mr. Revere responded. "But England will not be letting you go so easily, or at all. We've seen how possessive he is of you, and we've seen how he responds to dissidents. Have you forgotten the Massacre just three years ago? I fear there will be no way but bloodshed."

"Speaking of the old limey, perhaps you ought be getting back home, lad, before he notices?" Mr. Adams said, a warning clear in his voice. "We'd not want anything to happen to you."

"I'll be careful. I always am."

America pulled his woolen overcoat tighter around his shoulders as he braved his way back across the city to their manor house, noting absently that the seams would have to be let out again. He was growing so fast, the size of a fourteen year old human by now when other nations would have scarce left infancy at his age. He and England seemed to do nothing but fight as of late; over taxes, over the 'ungrateful' nature of his people, and especially over the stifling Acts handed down by Parliament in London every few months. He was beginning to believe Adams, Jefferson, and Washington when they insisted a war was coming, and America was feeling the strain of his heart tearing itself in two between his people and his love for England.

"I'm home," America called as he handed his coat to the servant at the door. "England?"

"America! Where on earth have you been in this weather? That wind will cleave you down to your bones, lad. Come, in front of the fire with you, and I will call for some tea."

There was something reassuring about England's fussing, and he let himself be led by the hand to England's study and set bodily down on the carpet in front of his armchair. England sat down behind him, draping a thick blanket over his shoulders and wiping the moisture from his hair with a heated towel the maid brought with the tea set. America sighed and leaned back into England's legs, dropping his head on the elder man's lap and losing himself for a moment in the scent of sea air, black tea, and green woods. How much longer would he be able to breathe that scent, to curl up in those strong arms like a child and pretend the outside world didn't exist?

"What's troubling you, America? You aren't yourself."

_How would you know? You're never here._ America shoved those thoughts into the vaults of his mind and shook his head. "I'm all right, England."

"Bollocks, poppet," he scoffed. "You've a melancholy about you these days that doesn't suit. Just tell me what ails you and I'll take care of it, darling. You know I will always protect you."

_And that is the problem- you still see me as a child in need of protecting._ "Just uneasy, I suppose. The people…"

"Ah," England sighed, carding long fingers through America's hair. "I thought as much. Sometimes, our people can be at odds with each other so strongly that our minds and hearts are scattered and seem ready to fly apart. It is small consolation now I suppose, but it will get better America. Your growing pains are just a bit sharp right now."

"Growing pains, you say?" America murmured. "Perhaps."

"I will wager I know something that will help," England interjected, a sly look on his face as he tugged Nantucket. "Or have you forgotten what today is entirely?"

"Today…oh!" America smiled despite himself. "It's Saint Valentine's. Do I get presents?"

"When don't you, you spoiled pillock?" Today there was no veiled insult in the words, just simple banter and the knot in America's stomach eased. "Here you are, lovey."

A flat box and a covered tray were presented, the aroma of cinnamon and molasses rising strongly from the latter.

"Gingerbread! Did you make it yourself, England?" he exclaimed, snatching a vaguely man-shaped cookie from the tray and devouring it. He knew the answer already, of course- the cookies were misshapen and burnt around the edges, as well as being an off sort of color.

"Of course I did. My food is the best in the world, after all."

America favored him with a crumb-laden grin, at which England rolled his eyes and used his thumb to wipe off America's mouth. The digit lingered on his bottom lip for a few long moments, England's clover eyes hazing over in a way that made America nervous.

"England?"

"Ah, isn't it about time you stopped wearing everything you eat?" England jibed, clearly attempting to cover his gaffe if his scarlet cheeks were any indicator. America shrugged one shoulder, turning his attention to the box to distract himself. _What was that?_ Opening the lid, America found a new pair of expensive black leather riding gloves and a short poem. _If that from Glove you take the letter G, then Glove is Love and that I send to thee._

"You didn't have to…"

"Your old ones were in a disgraceful state," England said, refusing to meet America's eyes. "And you love the equestrian arts so much that I thought new ones were in order. Bad enough you destroy your hands in the fields."

"Thank you," America whispered, laying his head back into England's lap to hide his blushing face. Of course it was lovely that England had noticed how much America loved to ride (and the animals themselves), but there was something nagging at his mind about the gift. Something about gloves and Valentine's and England's house that wasn't quite coming together in his mind…

"Of course, poppet. You aren't grown yet, after all, so I'll have to keep being your 'sweetheart' for a while longer, hmm?"

It was the same joke every year since he was a child, and America gave the usual response. But this year, this Valentine's, it felt for the first time like a lie.

"Always."

.

.

_February 14, 1851_

_Washington D.C._

"America, we've received a rather unusual invitation from Britain."

America thought he hid his cringe rather well as he adjusted his waistcoat. "Is it an invitation to help myself over a cliff? Only, he's extended that kind offer to me before and I have graciously declined."

President Fillmore frowned, the graven lines around his harsh mouth deepening. The man butted heads with the personification of his nation quite often, notably over the areas of slavery and westward expansion.

"Or, perhaps he wants to invite me to bicker further over the Clayton-Bulwer Treaty. If he doesn't keep his ass out of Honduras I swear I'll-"

"_America_," the President interjected, rubbing his temples. "I did say _we_ not _you._ Queen Victoria has invited major representatives from a host of nations to attend their Great Exhibition which begins on the first of May. We may also send contributions to the showing of the 'industry of all nations'. They have been working on the exhibition site, the so-called Crystal Palace, for ages now. I believe that attendance will be a sound move diplomatically; it should also be fascinating. There is also a separate invitation for you personally to attend a grand ball and dinner reserved for your…compatriots."

"Yes, yes, fascinating, I'm sure," America replied, yawning as he waved his hand for the invitation. "You realize he's just doing this because France held one seven years ago and he wants to show him up?"

"Nevertheless, I have already sent back our- and your- acceptance. No, I will brook no argument on this America."

America closed his mouth again with a click, scanning the list of exhibits and events already scheduled. "Oooh, a yacht race. We have _got_ to get in on that."

"America, this envelope was also delivered for you today. There are no markings of post and we have no idea how it got here at all, so perhaps it would be best not to-"

_Rip_.

"-open it. You idiot."

"What?" America asked, plucking an intricately folded piece of paper out of the envelope with two fingers. "It's just some kind of card or something…what the hell _is_ this?"

America flipped the thick vellum over and over in his hands. It appeared to be a puzzle of some kind, a perfect square with four triangular flaps that met in the middle. A large scrolled heart was inked across the "x" formed by the center of the flaps in crimson. Leaning over his shoulder, the President squinted at the object before guffawing, a jovial sound America was unused to from his stern boss.

"It's a puzzle purse. Someone has sent you a very complicated Valentine," Fillmore chuckled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. America sighed- he was certain he'd never live this one down now. At least the President was a bit of a bookworm and probably knew how this thing worked.

"Yeah, so what do I do with it?"

"Well, when you unfold it in a certain way, it shows verses or love letters that are meant to be read in a specific order." A few flips of his wrist, and the paper now lay flat and open. It was beautifully illustrated with hand-drawn flowers and scrolls, the calligraphy of the verses a precise and flowing copperplate. "These flowers have meanings too- the tradition comes from England and they love hidden symbols. Let's see- creeping willow means 'love forsaken', rue is for 'regret', rose is…no, that's eglantine rose for 'a wound to heal'. Lavender rose signifies 'love at first sight', heliotrope is for 'devotion', and mallow means the sender is 'consumed with love'." The man turned the page over again, showing a single, highly detailed image on the reverse, circled with a chain of words repeating a single phrase. "The back side is amaranth." Fillmore looked up at America with what could almost be called pity. "Immortal love. 'I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; Tis better to have loved and lost; than never to have loved at all.' My God, America, this is the most moving love letter I've ever seen. Who sent this?"

"I don't know," America choked. He picked up the vellum and carefully refolded it square, sliding it back into the envelope and trying to forget he ever saw it. He was lying, of course. There was only one soul on earth who would send America such a complex, beautiful, _horrible_ thing on Valentine's Day.

"I think you do. It was Br-"

"Don't. Just don't."

.

.

_February 14, 1943_

_Sidi Bou Zid, Tunisia_

"What a fiasco," England said, tossing his torn and burnt jacket to the floor of the command tent and dunking his head in the nearby basin of wash water. It was stained pink when he emerged. "Bugger it all, I must have a head wound. Someone fetch me a damned mirror and some tape."

"Do you need a medic, Lord Kirkland?"

"No, lad. It'll be right as rain by morning anyway so what's the point?" England noted the wry twist of Lieutenant-General Anderson's lips as he was called a "lad", but to someone nearly two millennia old it was appropriate. He was feeling every moment of his age in this war; far more than the so-called Great War, this was the dawn of a new era. The battlefield was changing for good with the rapid advancement in weaponry, and it left England with a sour taste in his mouth and an uneasy roil in his stomach. "Operation Torch my arse. We're the ones going down in flames here."

"Sir, if I may speak freely? The Americans…"

"I know, lad," England sighed, sinking wearily into a camp chair in his shirtsleeves. "They are inexperienced in terrestrial warfare, foolish and reckless in their disposition, and their leadership is scattered. They really _must_ have better generals than that ninny Fredendall."

"I do hope so, sir," Anderson replied. "I do not want it said that we do not appreciate that the United States entered this war- we needed them badly. But their strength seems to lie in airborne and naval combat rather than trench warfare. Yet…_he_ was quite awe inspiring, sir. Such strength and bravery, yet he has a child's heart. A few of us saw him weeping openly over his fallen- a man I watched lift a tank over his head and hurl it as though it were a stage prop."

"He _is_ a child, Lieutenant-General. At least, for our kind."

The commanders of England's army were some of the few who were aware of his identity, though America seemed to be far less circumspect. _Honestly, Alfred, throwing a panzer about where anyone might see you- it's as though you want to get captured, you twat._ England was surprised to see Anderson smile at that, chuckling a little into his hand.

"Sometimes I can believe it. After all, Aviation General Jones stormed rather viciously back to his own tent grumbling about how mean you were, to forget to bring him presents today." The laughter grew louder, almost fond. "On the front, and the brat is thinking about Valentine's chocolates from his sweetheart!"

"That git is _not _my 'sweetheart' and all he thinks about is his stomach," England muttered, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. His officer's smile grew sly then.

"Ah, so you did get him some, then."

"Oh belt it!" England snapped, retrieving a box from his trunk and sweeping out of the tent in what he hoped was an imperious manner. Crossing the camp to the American tents was strange, the raucous music and joking replaced by the groans of the injured and the dying. America's own tent was small, no larger than that of his men, and set right amongst them. There was no guard (_reckless_), so England simply eased back the flap and slipped inside. "America?"

"Izzat you, Iggy?"

_Curse Japan, and not just for siding with the Kraut. That nickname…_ "Yes, it's me Alfred. Where the blazes are you?"

"Over here."

England nearly tripped over the man, his eyes not yet adjusted to the dim light. America was huddled on the ground next to his cot, wrapped in a thin woolen blanket and ripping mindlessly into the foil wrapper of a Hershey bar. He seemed to be running without thought, mechanically eating his troubles if the pile of silver foil at his feet was any indication. England rested a gentle hand on his once-golden hair, now clogged with the dust of the desert terrain.

"I lost track of you this afternoon. Have you been hurt at all?" he asked. His tone was soft and coaxing, a soothing sound he used on skittish horses.

"Got run over by a tank, actually." The boy's tone was so matter-of-fact that England wanted to strangle him. "Germany is a real dick; drove right into the trench and made a half-turn while he was still on me. I'm so gonna rearrange his face for him later- I think he'd look good with his nose where his ear should be."

"That's why we dig foxholes now. Why aren't you with the medics, you great fool?" England railed, dropping to his knees to run his hands over Alfred's torso. "You're lucky you're not in pieces, and gods! This uniform is all over blood, why haven't you bathed or changed?"

"Just relax, Iggy. Everything's Jake- I'm mostly healed up already. Just some bruises and a few fractured ribs left now."

England's hands faltered as he tore open America's uniform shirt to find only smooth golden skin with the hints of fading yellow-green bruises. "What in the sodding hell is this?"

America shrugged, a gesture he found at once exasperating and charming. "Something's changing in me as this war goes on. I'm getting stronger, Arthur, even stronger than usual. Mattie was muttering something about superpowers the last time he saw me. I think he's been reading one too many of my comic books."

"A Superpower, Alfred, not 'super powers'. Several of us have speculated that you are...becoming something akin to what I am." A bitter snort. "Was."

"Well, it's not super enough. You saw what happened out there. You'd have been better off bringing a pack of Frenchies to fight with you than us." Another huge bite from his chocolate bar, swallowed without time to taste.

"I'm more concerned with why you were whinging on about chocolate when you seem to have a ready supply right here?"

"Shit. Uh, Anderson heard that?"

"You're not a quiet lad, America."

"Shit." Alfred scratched the back of his head in a nervous gesture England hadn't seen in years, the bluster of 'America the Hero' having been played for all it was worth lately. "This is army ration stuff. Kinda crap, actually, but I save it for when I really need the sugar rush. It's not the same as…you know."

"Yes." Cursing the blush painting his fair skin, England handed over a plain white box to his companion. "Take it, idiot, I don't have all day."

America's hands hesitated before reaching out and flipping back the flaps only a _little_ dented from shipping. Nestled in a bed of fragrant bay leaves and rose petals was a large assortment of fancy Cadbury chocolate; chocolate that should have been impossible to get from England's house considering the heavy rationing and the ravages the Luftwaffe had brought.

"But…"

"An Empire, even a fading one, still has some clout, you divvy prat."

England was shocked but not displeased to find himself, for the first time in near on to two centuries, with an armful of America. He'd grown so, his little angel, and yet he still tried to curl into England's lap as he used to so long ago.

"Stay?"

"Of course, sweetheart," England breathed, stroking a hand down America's back and tactfully ignoring his muffled sobs. "As long as you need."

.

.

_February 14, 2012_

_Paris, France_

England drummed his fingers on the tabletop in a brisk tattoo of irritation. Somehow America had gotten himself lost in the vast expanse between his hotel room _three floors up_ and the conference room. The fact that the fat git couldn't even manage punctuality when he was in the same building rankled England; for better or for worse he and America were linked in the eyes of the world and one's excesses reflected poorly on the other.

"Where the hell is that schwachkopf?" Germany snapped, the vein in his right temple throbbing. "How that idiot beat anyone in a war I will never understand."

"La, but 'e was always late to ze party, even then," France drawled, twirling his pen in his fingers like one of his roses. "Perhaps chère Amérique is out preparing a romantic Valentine's gesture for 'is amant, non?"

All eyes turned to England, more than a few of their owners hiding grins behind their sleeves and snickers in "coughs". He shuffled his paperwork and very determinedly did not meet any of those stares. It seemed that everyone knew of his infatuation with his former charge- everyone _except_ America himself, the clueless sod. Seventy years of jokes about the "Special Relationship" flew straight over the lad's head; Alfred would just don his Hollywood smile and sling a companionable arm around his shoulders, never noticing how Arthur's muscles would stiffen and his cheeks would burn at the contact. For centuries now his heart had belonged to that beautiful, whimsical, infuriating soul and it was starting to wear England to the bone. He wasn't sure why he still clung to the faint hope that Alfred would notice the subtle signs of his affection- the homemade meals and the nagging that he would not bother with if he didn't _care_- and the refined symbolism in the gifts he gave. Oh, he still gave America a gift every Valentine's Day since that disastrous one in '43 and the boy did appear sincerely grateful, favoring England with a crushing hug or a sloppy, childlike kiss on the forehead; yet, it never seemed to occur to America that the feelings he was expressing were those of a more passionate mien than friendship. Some days England would almost work up the resolve to try and move on, to forget this impossible love, but then he and America would meet again and it would crumble beneath the heavy gaze of eyes like a summer sky over the sea. Sighing, he let his head drop to the table with a dull thud. _Who are you fooling, old boy? That creature has held your heart in his hand from the moment you met. Why pretend it is anything other than his?_

"Holy crap, I am _so_ sorry I'm late. I am late, yeah? I mean, is that clock correct? Shit."

America stood framed in the doorway, his messenger bag sliding off his right arm and taking the sleeve of his bomber jacket along for the ride. He was dressed in torn Levi's and a black t-shirt proudly proclaiming "Also, I can kill you with my mind", his hair in such a tousled state Nantucket didn't even stand out. Faded red-and-white striped Converse completed the picture of unprofessionalism, and England lost what was left of his mind.

"You stupid prat!" he yelled, smacking the younger about the head with a file folder. "You inconsiderate little tosspot! You're forty minutes late and you have the nerve to walk in here looking like some uni student on holiday? Where the bloody hell have you been?"

"Geez, Iggy, take a fucking pill. I thought I could run an errand before the meeting, but there was an accident near the courier's office and the taxis here make no sense and the Frenchies don't exactly love us Americans so they were _zero_ help in giving me directions for walking back." America held his hands up defensively as he talked, as though it would save him from the next salvo of office supplies. "Plus, you know, they're fucking _French_ so they were acting like assholes and hitting on me at the same time."

"Honhonhon…."

"Shut it, Frog." England rolled his eyes at his old enemy, now waggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion at Alfred and blowing air kisses. "God and the Grail, stop that. You're even more repulsive when you attempt to look alluring. The boy may be daft but he's not _that_ daft."

"Ewww," America agreed. "Not even with Mattie's dick, Francis."

"Hey…" came a whisper from the corner, followed by a childlike "Who?" England ignored it. So did everyone else.

"And just what was so important at a courier's office that couldn't wait until _after_ the meeting?"

Alfred had the grace to look ashamed, scuffing his wet sneakers on the linoleum with an obnoxious squeaking sound. "I'll tell you later, okay. I promise I'll just sit down, shut up, and pay attention."

"No," England replied, stabbing a finger into America's chest. "Not 'okay'. You'll tell me right now."

"I'd rather have him shut up and pay attention," Germany mumbled, clearly giving up all hope of a normal meeting. _Like we ever have one of those anyway._

"Seriously, Iggy, can't it-"

"Alfred F. Jones, you tell me this instant!"

"Here, damn it! It came in late, so I had to get it now because the office closed before the meeting was supposed to let out and I needed it today! Are you happy now that you can totally humiliate me in front of, I dunno, _everybody_?" Alfred wailed, unearthing a prettily wrapped package from his bag and shoving it into Arthur's hands. America's eyes were riveted to his shoelaces, his teeth gritted and a furious scarlet across his high cheekbones. England stared at the present (_it really is a present for me, isn't it?)_ for a tense moment before giving in to curiosity and pulling apart the gauze ribbon. _It's probably candy or the like. The lad must be feeling bad that I'm the one always giving him gifts, and decided to reciprocate. He was late for me, the dear stupid thing._

Removal of the paper and lid yielded something altogether different- a pair of handmade leather gloves, expertly dyed a rare oxblood color. A color, he realized, that perfectly matched the accents on his favorite Burberry overcoat. _He just remembers the ones you gave him,_ England reasoned, trying to calm his racing heart, _he doesn't know it's a traditional gift of lovers._ "Alfred, they're lovely…" He lifted the top glove out of its tissue paper nest to try it on, and his lungs stopped working altogether. "Al…Alfred…?"

America's head was still tucked to his chin, his blush now reaching all the way to the tips of his ears, his eyes squeezed shut. Curious as to what could possibly silence the two noisiest countries on earth, France hooked his chin over England's shoulder to look into the box as well.

"What is all ze fuss about, Angl-" A gasp in his ear shook England from his torpor. "Angleterre, is zat what I think it is?"

Cleverly positioned on the fourth finger of the remaining glove (_the left glove, was he serious_?) was a heavy gold ring. His fingers wouldn't stop trembling as he lifted it free; it was a signet ring, the large gemstone cabochon carved with the British Royal Arms in stunning detail right down to his words "Dieu Et Mon Droit". The gem itself was a rarity, a Blue John; a particularly fine specimen of deep indigo and a stone only found in his own lands. The expense of such a custom gift, the weight of the symbols involved, the taste exhibited- these were things rarely associated with America and England felt a wave of shame that he too had underestimated the younger nation. _I know him best, so I should have remembered that he only plays the fool._

"You were the first thing I saw this morning," Alfred whispered, the sound echoing in a room full of gossips hanging on every word. "Outside my window, screaming at the valet about not even breathing wrong on your Astin Martin." His lips twitched at the corners, the ghost of a smile. "And there was a nest of robins in the tree next to the main entrance as I left. I've seen those birds every year on this day for over two centuries, Arthur. I stopped thinking it was a coincidence a long time ago."

"You…know what those divinations mean?"

"Of course I do," Alfred replied, still refusing to meet England's eyes. "Those traditions are yours, after all." A sudden giggle from his other side made America cough and look away towards the windows, trying and failing at nonchalance. "I mean, you nagged all that history crap into my head so hard of course some of it stuck."

"Tsundere's child is tsundere," Japan sang under his breath, his phone positioned with the camera facing America. A mumble that sounded like "Stuff a sock in it, Kiku", before America finally lifted those gorgeous eyes to Arthur's. There was fear there, true fear, but also longing and warmth and a love so strong and sure England wasn't sure how he'd managed to miss it all these years.

"So, since it's a leap year and all, and I did promise to buy _you_ the presents when I got bigger and stronger, I thought…I mean, would you…" America trailed off, lost, and wrung his hands together in front of his stomach. "Damn it, Arthur, you know what I mean so say something, will ya?"

"The first bird I saw today was a sparrow," England said, heart on his sleeve for America once again. "Seemed apropos to me."

America laughed, a relieved exhalation of joy. "That's cold, Iggy. My economy's totally getting better." He plucked the ring from England's palm and gestured with it. "So does that mean you will?"

"Yes, pet," he managed, cupping America's warm cheek with his right hand while holding out his left. "All you had to do was ask."

Cheers rose and money exchanged hands (_those bastards)_ as America slid the ring onto England's finger and raised it to his lips. The whole world (_literally_) was watching and America was blushing and grinning like a Cheshire Cat and France was making lewd jokes behind him with Spain and Prussia but England's whole world had narrowed down to their joined hands and Alfred's lips and he decided that propriety should be damned; today of all days, he could be forgiven for the lapse. Reeling Alfred in by the shirtfront, Arthur crushed his lips to his new fiancé's in a staggering kiss.

"Happy Valentine's, sweetheart."

_Chapter Notes:_

_Tradition 1 (1685)- The Roman fertility festival of Lupercalia included a lover's lottery, and the tradition was passed on to England during Roman rule. The holiday merged with Saint Valentine's Day during Christianization, but the tradition remained right up until the last century. It is where we get the expression "To wear your heart on your sleeve."_

_Tradition 2 (1760)- Love "divinations" were popular in England from Roman times right through the Victorian Era. It was said that a girl would marry the first single man she saw outside her window on Valentine's morning. The first bird spotted on that day would tell what sort of man a woman would marry- a robin meant a sailor, while a sparrow meant she would marry a poor man but be very happy._

_Tradition 3 (1773)- In Saxon England, young men commonly gifted their lovers with a pair of gloves which symbolized authority- which is what America is forgetting and yet discomfited by. The poem was a common one that accompanied such a gift. Gingerbread was also a treat given to lovers._

_Also mentioned here, the Boston Massacre of 1770_

_Tradition 4 (1851)- Starting in the late 1660s right through the first World War, valentine's cards were very popular in England. In Victorian times particularly, they became elaborate creations of lace paper, velvet, and satin ribbons. A common convention was the puzzle purse or other origami-like folded card, where the boy could hide more passionate or secret notes to his lover to get around stern and restrictive fathers. Google a picture of a puzzle purse- they were absolutely lovely and did often contain verse._

_Also mentioned here is the Great Exhibition of 1851, the first proper World's Fair, and President Millard Fillmore the bookworm. No really- he started the White House library. The poem is the famed lines from Alfred Lord Tennyson's In Memoriam:27, written in 1850. I thought it doubly appropriate._

_Tradition 5 (1943)- Chocolate, of course, and my version of the canon Valentine strip. Bay leaves mixed with rose petals or sprinkled with rose water carried a meaning of "hope in love"._

_The Battle of the Kasserine Pass during Operation Torch in Tunisia was the first time American ground forces met Germany head on. We got routed big time, a combination of bad leadership and inexperience. And they really did crush men in the slit trenches by running them over twice like that with tanks. You're a douche, Ludwig. The Brits weren't particularly happy about the loss but the American Forces learned from it very quickly._

_Tradition 6 (2012)- It was acceptable in England for a woman to ask for her lover's hand in marriage on a Valentine's Day during a leap year. Sort of like Sadie Hawkins Day. Happy Leap Year, darlings! I'm not necessarily saying Alfred is the uke here, either. Just that England was father, brother, and mentor to America for a long time, and was always the gift giver (traditionally a male role)._

"_Schwachkopf" is "moron" in German. "Ch__è__re Am__é__rique" and "amant" are "Dear America" and "lover" respectively in French._

_A signet ring is a heavy ring with a round seal carved in the center (in either the metal or on a cabochon stone) that was pressed into sealing wax to make an impression, used as a means of identification and authentication of royal/noble documents. England's Royal Seal is a Coat of arms held up by a golden lion and a chained unicorn, surmounted with a crown and a second lion. The words in Latin on its bottom ribbon are "Dieu et Mon Droit", "God and My Right" in French (really long story). Blue John is a type of fluorite found only in the tiny region of Derbyshire, England. It is quite lovely, clear to golden yellow with bands of very deep blue, often in a lightning-shape. _


End file.
